The dog laid the pigeon at my feet. Gently. Strategically innocent eyes. Playful, as if to say: You done interfering now?

This was the second time.

Two hours earlier:

I sit beneath a massive tree, its bark stretching beyond my line of sight. The air is intoxicating, damp and cool. Birds and pigeons gather by the water, a feathered parliament debating the day. Two muddy dogs, freshly dipped in the pond, flank me, eagerly devouring the chicken I’ve offered them. Bellies full, they lay lazily at my feet. This is happiness, I think. This right here.

An hour or so later, one of the dogs (goes by the name Milka now) gets up and vanishes, returning moments later with a big pigeon in his mouth.

I freeze. “Nature, Lana”, I remind myself. These are dogs. This is the law.

The Rescue That Taught Me Nothing

I watch, grappling with the ache in my chest. Milka laid down, releasing the bird. It flutters, attempting to walk, its fragile determination is heartbreaking.

Milka remains unflinching, neither evil nor concerned, just peacefully present. The bird isn’t contemplating its fate; and why bad things happen to good pigeons, it’s busy surviving.

Moments later, Milka seems finished with the bird. Now, I reason, it requires my intervention. I march toward the scene, Milka doesn’t even glance my way, serene as someone post-Sunday mass. I gently scoop up the bird, inspecting its delicate form. Nothing seems broken.

I carry the bird like precious cargo, whispering reassurances, giving what I think is love. I approach a spot near the water where dozens of its kin gather. Slowly, careful not to disturb the assembly, I place it on the ground. It walks, seemingly okay, and vanishes among them, absorbed back into its world.

Mission accomplished. I’ve saved the day, restored cosmic balance. Back to my tree, I bask in my satisfied contemplation. A few passersby salute me, thanking me for my heroism.

When the Universe Laughs at Your Heroism

Ten minutes later, maybe fifteen, Milka trots toward me, purpose in his stride. He carries the same bird again, dangling from his mouth like destiny. But this time, there’s no rescue to perform. This time, there’s only truth, raw and unavoidable.

The bird is food.

In that moment, I receive my real education. My ‘rescue’ was a refusal to accept cosmic order because it made me squirm. The only real cruelty is our resistance to reality. Milka and the bird had no conflict – only I did

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Back at my apartment, I kept thinking about that moment. Milka’s look. The pigeon. My rescue attempt.

I do this with my life too.

What if I stopped wrestling with fate? Allowed what I fear to happen to actually happen? What if who I’m meant to be is better and happier than who I worked so hard to become?

Maybe surrender isn’t weakness – it’s finally trusting that God has my back.